


shed a sweet light

by attheborder



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gift Giving, Hanukkah, Humor, Idiots in Love, Insufferable Husbands, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), Jewish Holidays, Kissing in the Snow, M/M, Stunts and Maneuvers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, When Influencers Attack, no hurt just comfort, whatever the opposite of a christmas fic is: this is that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “Angel, why didn’t you just tell them you were Jewish?”“But I’mnot!That would belying!”Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’re not…notJewish. You’re as Old Testament as they come. And it would’ve worked. Probably.”“I’ll be sure to remember that one,” Aziraphale said haughtily, “the next time I am besieged by— byholiday influencers.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 126
Kudos: 965
Collections: Good Omens is Jewish and so are we





	shed a sweet light

It was snowing in London. 

This was unusual, but not wholly unheard of. It _ was _ winter, after all.

However, the fact that the snow had found fit to contain itself within a one-mile radius of a particular intersection was most certainly out of the ordinary. 

It seemed, upon observation, that the anomalous bubble of perfect weather generated by Adam Young’s childhood idyll had naturally extended itself to a certain locale he had so recently reconstructed. 

From the window, Aziraphale watched the snow fall outside the bookshop, feeling caught between pride and worry. It was a beautiful sight, to be certain. He’d often brought down this kind of perfect, fluffy white snow as a blessing, when called for; he knew how well a fortuitous snowfall could calm a soul hardened by misfortune or loss of faith. It was gratifying to know that same soothing magic was being worked all around him, without him having to lift a spiritual finger. The people who came into his shop off the snowy street, faces red and flushed, snowflakes dotting their scarves, were a wonderful sight to behold. They were happy.  _ He  _ was happy.

But still. 

He worried. 

Because things had been going well.  _ Too  _ well. 

It stood to reason that a world created anew by such a wonderfully imaginative young boy in the midst of the dreamy dog days of August would retain a certain storybook atmosphere. Aziraphale and Crowley, after their triumphant celebratory lunch, had settled into a grateful routine. There had been little conversation— it hadn’t seemed necessary, at least not from Aziraphale’s point of view. It was rather obvious that they both wanted the same things. 

The chance to spend time with each other. This was easily accomplished. Crowley occupied the bookshop like a liquid, pouring himself into the space, filling it up with his blackvelvet presence and unselfconscious cackle— and Aziraphale would simply allow it, no more nudges to get on or hinting about bedtimes.

The chance to touch each other. That, too, was easy, easier than Aziraphale ever thought it would be. Crowley was perhaps not the grasping, acquisitive fiend that Aziraphale, in his more salacious fantasies, had imagined him to be, but in the end it turned out that wasn’t really what Aziraphale wanted. What he wanted was whatever Crowley chose to give him, which these days happily tended towards pleasure, in all of its forms.

And finally, the chance to relax. To stop looking over their shoulders, to fraternize freely, to soak up the soul of the other unbound, unfettered by the need for espionage or concealment. This was the most wonderful reward of them all, Aziraphale thought, and yet the one most difficult to accept. 

It couldn’t  _ last,  _ could it? This state of things, this eternal denouement, couldn’t possibly continue. Adam would grow up. His influence would shift, wane, disappear. The world would change. Aziraphale would hold out as long as he could, like he always did, delaying the inevitable, clinging tight to what he could, tastes and textures and memories, but eventually movement would be unavoidable.

As winter had drawn closer, and the summer’s averted Apocalypse drifted further into the past, he had tried his best to focus on the comfortable present. He’d added a few books on mindfulness and meditation to a central display in the shop, in the hopes that by osmosis their contents might induce him into a state of acceptance. But instead they just sat there uselessly, attracting women in yoga pants and men in fleece vests with nirvanic aspirations.

Meanwhile, the localized meteorological phenomenon of the Soho Snow (as it was being called) was not going unremarked-upon by passersby. Word had started to spread through social media, and this week locals and tourists alike had started to take the trek out to this little square to experience the seductively seasonal setting. 

Across the street from the shop now, a family was enlisting a stranger’s help in taking a photograph of them standing happily in front of the cafe, amidst snowdrifts illuminated by the twinkling lights of the Christmas decorations. Aziraphale watched them approvingly: the young boy holding out a mittened hand to catch the falling snowflakes, the husband giving the wife a kiss on the cheek. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale couldn’t stand there and soothe himself with the beautiful sight forever. The door’s bell jangled, and he scowled. Customers had arrived, and they’d probably want to do something ridiculous like try to buy a book.

***

Crowley was getting out of the Bentley, having parked it in His Spot in front of the bookshop, when he saw the door swing open with a ring of the bell. A couple walked out into the gently falling snow; a made-up young woman with perfectly curled chestnut hair draped elegantly over her forest-green sweater and fur-collared Burberry coat, and a tall, scruffy man holding an expensive-looking camera.

He caught a snatch of their conversation as he passed them on his way towards the shop door. 

The girl was whining, “...no decorations at  _ all!  _ God, can you imagine how gorgeous that place would look, with a tree, lights strung up all around, just a touch of mistletoe— Nathan, it’d be  _ perfect  _ for my feed!” 

“Right, yeah,” said the man, whose harried expression seemed to Crowley to have been permanently ground into his face long ago. 

“And the way he hemmed and hawed on the price of that book! Like— like he didn’t  _ want  _ to sell it to me!” The girl’s righteous fury was palpable in the chilly air; Crowley couldn’t help but dawdle just outside the door and continue eavesdropping. This was better than espresso for him. 

“Awful,” the man—Nathan— agreed in a monotone.

The couple had stopped on the corner and were lingering now; the man’s phone was out and open to the telltale screen of the Uber app. The girl was gesturing expressively to the rest of the stores on the block, all decked out in their holiday finery. “Every  _ other _ shop on this block has got it down!  _ None _ of our outdoor shots are going to be worth posting, thanks to this bloody great unseasonal  _ lump  _ in the middle of it!” 

“You could post anyway, Marina,” suggested Nathan quietly. “Y’know, say, look at this wanker, doesn’t know it’s Christmas.” 

There was a beat, as the idea visibly took hold in Marina’s mind. Then she was making a thrilled, open-mouthed expression, clutching at Nathan’s leather-jacketed arm with a suede-gloved hand and hissing, “ _ Yes!  _ Oh, babe, that’s  _ just  _ the ticket! My followers will go  _ mad  _ for it!” 

Crowley’s grin was unstoppable by the time the Uber ferried the couple away, surely off to some overpriced Knightsbridge restaurant where the food would end up cold as ice by the time Marina finished snapping shots of their plates from above. 

Aziraphale was leaning over a low shelf, rearranging books haphazardly and humming an aria quietly to himself. 

Crowley couldn’t resist. He snuck up behind Aziraphale, absolutely silently, and clapped two hands over his eyes. 

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale dryly, “I have been set upon by a foul beast from the bowels of the underworld. However shall I defend myself from this mortal threat.” 

“Eugh, don’t say bowels,” said Crowley good-naturedly, sliding his hands down to the sides of Aziraphale’s face and giving his cheeks a pinch before letting go and spinning around, leaning with his back against the table next to the angel. “Saw some customers on my way out,” he said, ever-so-casually, desperately wanting to get Aziraphale’s side of the story. 

Aziraphale sighed, and tutted. “Oh, yes. That young lady was trying to  _ haggle  _ with me!” 

“Really?” 

“Yes! She certainly  _ looked  _ like she could afford my asking price for that Emily Dickinson edition, I wasn't going to budge. She started going on about, don’t I know it’s Christmas. Well, it’s  _ not, _ it’s still a week off. And besides, what’s that got to do with anything?

“I’m going to assume you didn’t know who that was,” Crowley said.

“What?” the angel frowned, tilting his head in a wildly becoming way that made Crowley want to reattach his hands to those cheeks and never let go. “Should I?” 

“Marina McKay,” explained Crowley, who made it a point to keep up with these sorts of things, “is one of the most popular lifestyle Instagrammers in London. She  _ loves  _ Christmas. Fucking lives for it, every year. It’s basically her entire brand.” 

“...And?” prompted Aziraphale, the picture of befuddlement.

“ _ And,”  _ grinned Crowley, “ _ you _ just became her new personal crusade. She thinks you’re the  _ Scrooge of Soho! _ Oh, you are  _ in  _ for it!”

Aziraphale folded his arms, frowning, while Crowley wheezed himself breathless. The demon lifted his shades to wipe at his eyes, and said “Angel, why didn’t you just tell them you were Jewish?” 

“But I’m  _ not!  _ That would be lying!” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’re not…  _ not  _ Jewish. You’re as Old Testament as they come. And it would’ve worked. Probably.” 

“I’ll be sure to remember that one,” Aziraphale said haughtily, “the next time I am besieged by— by  _ holiday influencers.”  _

“Oh, there’ll be a next time,” said Crowley. “What is it, a week till Christmas? I’m telling you, if Marina sets her horde on you, by tomorrow you’ll have a crowd of protesters out there. Big signs up saying,  _ YOU BETTER WATCH OUT,  _ et cetera.” 

“That _ is _ quite a threatening lyric, when you think about it,” mused Aziraphale. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley, “Santa Claus as an apparatus of the surveillance state. Great stuff, if you ask me. It’s amazing, the things they come up with. Wish I’d thought of that.” 

He dug his phone out of his impossibly tight jeans pocket and began tapping away. “I’m turning on alerts for Marina,” he said. “When she puts you on blast, I’ve  _ got _ to be the first to know.” 

“I’m very nearly tempted to accuse you of engineering this whole situation for your own amusement,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley let out a scandalized gasp. “I’m doing nothing of the sort!” he said, outraged.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but conceded. “Whatever you say, dear.”

  
  


*******

  
  


It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t _ like  _ Christmas. Far from it. There was much to admire, from the spirit of generosity that had come to pervade the season ever since Dickens had made his mark, to the emphasis on family and faithfulness and warmth that was shared between Solstice celebrations from across history and geography.

But it was a fundamentally human holiday, one that had really only been around in its modern form for a mere two centuries, if that, and the angel just hadn’t gotten around to getting used to all of the various contemporary expectations and traditions.

(The pedantic side of him had also always taken mild issue with the fact that Jesus had  _ not  _ been born in the wintertime. He’d know, too— Gabriel had put him on annunciation duty, reading off the tedious approved copy to confused shepherds across Bethlehem. It had been a biting spring day, the winds on the pastures blowing his robes about and making his eyes water.) 

Besides, he always  _ meant  _ to put up a wreath on the door, or something of the sort, he really really did. Reliably as clockwork, though, he’d get distracted, by some translation project or a hunt for a rare book, and by the time he’d look up, Christmas would have flown right by again.

And this year in particular, it must be said, he had been just a little more distracted than usual. Thoughts of jingle bells could not have been further from his already-crowded head when Crowley was rarely more than a few feet away, and sometimes even closer than that. 

The day after the little incident with the influencer, Aziraphale was gratified to see that a picket line of pro-Christmas fanatics had not yet formed in front of the bookshop— though it wasn’t as if he’d _ really  _ believed Crowley’s nonsense about that Marina girl anyway. Surely a lovely young lady like that, however Christmas-obsessed, couldn’t possibly have the power to “set a horde” on him. 

All the same, that afternoon, Aziraphale let Crowley exit the shop ahead of him and do some covert visual recon.

“All clear,” said Crowley confidently, once he’d scanned the surroundings. “Safe to exit. Operation Christmas Market is go.” 

“Thank you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, giving Crowley’s arm a grateful, indulgent squeeze as he closed the bookshop door behind him. “Don’t know what I’d do without your… tactics.”

They wandered out into the swirling snow and west towards the street market that’d been set up on Carnaby for the weekend. Tents and booths had been erected in the wide street, hawking all sorts of seasonally appropriate wares. Pedestrians, swathed in puffy parkas and fashionable peacoats, sampled mediocre baked goods, got their portraits drawn by street artists, and haggled over trendy ceramics. 

Aziraphale gravitated naturally to the hot cocoa stand, where he ordered one for himself and one for Crowley, miracling the demon’s to include a splash of top-shelf bourbon and receiving a happy smile in return. 

As the angel drank, he observed. All around him, there were people. They were laughing, eating, singing, arguing. Buying things they didn’t need. Saying things they didn’t mean. Existing, pure and simple, without any input or interference from Above or Below. 

He’d finished his cup, deposited it conscientiously in a streetside rubbish bin, and was ambling towards an interesting-looking purveyor of leather-bound notebooks when Crowley gently nudged his shoulder with an elbow.

“Spit it out.”

“Sorry?” said Aziraphale mildly.

Crowley, with his long legs, stepped a few paces ahead of Aziraphale, then stopped and turned around to face him, so that they both came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the crowded street. 

“You’ve got something on your mind. You’re working up to something. I can  _ see  _ your mouth going, practicing what you’re going to say. So c’mon. Lemme hear it.”

Aziraphale let his shoulders slump. “It’s just  _ strange, _ all of it, _ ”  _ he admitted, and Crowley tensed for a moment, mild panic seizing his shape. 

“Oh, not  _ you, _ oh dear, of course not, darling, not  _ this,” _ Aziraphale quickly clarified, motioning between himself and the demon, and Crowley relaxed minutely, but his mouth was still twisted into a thin strip of worry.

He began, “Then what—” 

“Christmastime is—  _ was _ always our busiest time of year,” Aziraphale said. “All those assignments, blessing and tempting all over the city, both Head Offices trying to make their quotas by the end of Q4—” 

“Yes, and  _ you  _ always complained about it,” said Crowley, with a bemused smile. “I thought you’ve been enjoying the retired life. No more racking up overtime.”

“I’ve been  _ trying  _ to. But this week— this wonderful, lovely weather— and nothing to do, but relax and enjoy it— and I’ve noticed that, well, how it’s more obvious than ever that I— that we—” 

Aziraphale could tell by the look on Crowley’s face that he wasn’t making a jot of sense. “It’s just so strange not— not to—” He tried to distill the swirl of worry in his head down into something clear and concise. “Not to  _ matter _ anymore.” 

“Oh, angel,” said Crowley, his face slackening with gentle realization. He took a step forward, putting him chest-to-chest with Aziraphale, and grabbed the angel’s hands in his. He opened his mouth to say something, but the pair of them were suddenly jostled from behind. 

“Excuse you,” said a burly man, pushing past them. “Keep it moving!” 

Aziraphale shot the man’s retreating form a dirty look before returning to gaze into Crowley’s shaded eyes. He began to lean forward, but was interrupted by a teen-girl squawk from across the market aisle of “Oi, get a room!” 

Now it was Crowley’s turn to scowl at the interruption, but he didn’t stop there. He let go of one of Aziraphale’s hands, and snapped his fingers. 

Instantly, the scene around them froze. Snowflakes stilled in the air. The humans all around stopped moving, caught in mid-step, the mist of their breath hanging silently in clouds before them. 

In the soundless pocket of non-time Crowley had created for the two of them, Aziraphale could hear his own heart beating, Crowley’s too. And, distantly, the sound of their wings, the soft shifting of feathers and form that was always present, but only audible in moments like this, when the boundaries of reality were pushed just enough to admit the ethereal. 

Crowley leaned in and kissed Aziraphale gently. Then he pulled back, gesturing at the crowd, obviously about to make some kind of grand pronouncement. He did so love his monologues. Aziraphale helpfully looked away, following the line of the demon’s hand towards the tableau, because he knew very well that Crowley had a touch of stage fright and found it easier to speechify when he didn't have eyes directly on him.

“Look at all of this,” Crowley said. “These people. They—” 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to burst into song?” 

“Shuttup. Listen. What I’m trying to say is. All these humans. We spent so long on duty, Aziraphale, so  _ long,  _ doing what we were told to do, in order to make  _ their _ lives better or worse, and I mean,  _ I  _ don’t miss it, never will, but I know— I can see, now, that it’s hard for you to let go of that responsibility. I should’ve noticed earlier.” 

Aziraphale nodded. Oh, he should have told Crowley about his worries ages ago— he was already feeling better. Crowley had never been anything but honest with him, and here he was, keeping it all locked in, long past its expiration date, letting it go all rancid out of pure stubbornness. 

“We thought we were important. That’s what they had to tell us, to keep the plates in the air. To keep the whole system going, we  _ had  _ to think that we were the only ones who could make a difference. But it wasn’t true then, and it’s not true now. It was  _ never  _ true, and I  _ know _ you know when it was that I first figured that out.”

“Wessex,” said Aziraphale quietly. “The first time you—” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, beaming. “That’s right, angel.” 

With a sigh, Aziraphale folded himself forwards into Crowley’s arms, pressing his face to the demon’s shoulder. Crowley’s words were soft and low and only for Aziraphale as he said, “You matter just as much as any person on this street. To me, miles more. Light-years more. And—” here he cleared his throat, indicative of an effort to reroute his thoughts off the  _ adoration  _ track and back to  _ pep talk,  _ though Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded a bit more of it — “My point is— we saved this world so we could _ live _ in it, just like everyone else does, instead of playing it like a damn chess game. And  _ don’t  _ you dare give me any of that ‘but did we really’ shite, I’m not having that argument again, we  _ did  _ save it.” 

Aziraphale laughed into the fabric of Crowley’s coat, and then straightened back up, lifting his hands to lightly run across Crowley’s collar and chest, brushing snowflakes away from where they’d fallen. “Thank you,” he said. “I— that does help. Quite a bit, actually.”

“I know,” said Crowley. “You’re welcome. Anytime. And besides, just because you’re not spending Christmas doling out blessings from the company account doesn’t mean you can’t make a difference. Look, that girl there’s about to knock over that rack of ugly handbags.” 

Aziraphale looked obediently, and saw that Crowley was correct. The young lady was right up against the rack, which was frozen in a precarious, half-tipped position. 

“You could miracle them safe before I start time again,” Crowley suggested. 

“...Must I?”

“That’s the spirit,” said Crowley, with a sharp grin. He snapped his fingers, and the snow began to swirl once more. The bags fell, scattering over the snowy ground as the girl toppled backwards, and Aziraphale went to go help the human way, offering his arm to her as she rose to her feet, and then crouching to assist in picking up the scattered purses and clutches. 

After another turn around the market, soaking up the hum of the crowd and stopping to listen to a street musician do a lovely Greensleeves on a dulcimer, Crowley and Aziraphale headed back to the bookshop. 

When they turned the corner, Aziraphale said, “Oh, dear.”

Out in front of the shop, standing beneath the falling snow in the muted afternoon light, was a trio of young people. One girl, artificially pretty with chin-length platinum blonde hair, stood in front of a camera held by another girl in a massive red scarf. Off to the side a coiffed boy in glasses was holding some kind of lighting contraption, illuminating the blonde’s full face of matte makeup like a painting in the National Gallery. 

Crowley hadn’t looked at his phone all day. He tended not to, when he had Aziraphale’s full attention. But now he fished it out and stared down at it, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and revealing yellow eyes widened in amazement. 

“She’s only gone and bloody done it!” He flipped his phone to show Aziraphale. On the screen was a photograph of Marina McKay standing in the snow outside of A.Z. Fell’s. The unembellished facade of the shop stood out in its dullness amidst the glittering lights of the rest of the street. There were over 100,000 likes. The caption was very long and began with the sentences,  _ The saddest sight in all of London in December is a shop that hasn’t gotten into the holiday spirit. When I headed out to experience the #SohoSnow, I was soooo excited to find the whole street lit up in celebration... _

Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed in concern as he read on. Crowley looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. Finally, Aziraphale looked up from the screen over to the scene on his stoop. 

“But Crowley… that’s not her, is it?” asked Aziraphale, tipping his head towards the girl in front of the camera. He couldn’t hear what she was saying at this distance over the noise of the street, but she was gesticulating animatedly, apparently working herself up into some kind of frenzy.

Crowley shook his head. “No. Worse. That’s Phoebe Garrison, aka PhoebeGTV. Vlogger extraordinaire. One of Marina’s ‘squad.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “And she’s vicious. Famous for her ‘storytime’ videos. She’s gotten people fired from service jobs, gotten Twitter accounts suspended…” 

At Aziraphale’s increasingly discomfited expression, Crowley said, “Look, we don’t have to go back in now. We can pop ‘round the corner, wait it out in the cafe, they can’t stick around all evening.” 

Aziraphale could feel the reverse psychology at work, but was powerless to resist it. He gave a scoff, and proclaimed, “I am not letting a— a  _ vlogger—  _ stop me from entering my own bookshop!” He pronounced the neologism with utter distaste.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest further. With a protective arm slung around Aziraphale’s shoulder, he guided them across the street and towards Phoebe and her crew. 

Her voice became audible as they approached. “...And it just makes me so  _ sad,  _ you know, it’s such a  _ shame,  _ that there are some people who are too caught up in their own little worlds to contribute at all to the joy of others…”

The girl behind the camera started urgently motioning at the pair coming towards them. Phoebe noticed, and then eagerly turned, planting herself between Crowley & Aziraphale and the bookshop entrance. The camera girl and light boy swiveled with her, framing and illuminating them all flawlessly. 

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” she queried, and before Aziraphale could respond, she said confidently, “You sure do look like you run a bookshop.”

Aziraphale battled pride and privacy. Pride won. “I am,” he said, “but unfortunately we won’t be open again until tomorrow at eleven, so—” 

She pointed to the shop. “Why haven’t you got Christmas decorations up? No tree in the window. No wreath on the door. Even the newsagent has some twinkly lights!” 

“I— I haven’t gotten around to it,” said Aziraphale. 

“Have you got something against the holidays?” accused Phoebe. “Or are you just being a Grinch for no good reason?” 

Crowley tried to cut in with a defensive, “Look, it’s none of your—” but Aziraphale, bull-headed, wouldn’t let himself be talked over. “I don’t see how it’s your concern what measures I take to commemorate the time of year,” he said primly, holding his ground against Phoebe’s confrontational stance. 

“Marina says you were stopping her from buying gifts for her family,” said Phoebe, “so that’s not just a decorative issue, that’s  _ you  _ putting a damper on the spirit of  _ giving!”  _

“I wasn’t  _ stopping  _ anyone!” said Aziraphale. “ _ She  _ was demanding some kind of  _ influencer discount.  _ Which we are _ not _ in the practice of giving out— why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!” 

“You should’ve been glad for the positive exposure, I think,” said Phoebe. “Your shop doesn’t get many customers, does it? I mean, the Yelp reviews are just  _ awful!”  _

From beside Aziraphale, he heard Crowley choke on a scoff. 

Phoebe continued her rant. “This snow, it’s unusual, isn’t it? All of these people, coming to experience the wonderful winter weather, right here on your shop’s corner? Don’t you think it’s some kind of _ sign?  _ A sign from up above? A higher power, telling you to open your heart to the loving, beautiful,  _ holy  _ Christmas season!” 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a glare that was barely prevented from becoming an eye-roll. Crowley was restraining a smirk as best he could, his hand maintaining a comforting grip on the angel’s shoulder. 

Obviously Aziraphale couldn’t tell Phoebe that the snow  _ was  _ a sign, but not from up above, or down below, for that matter— he couldn’t tell her it was the most human sign of all, borne out of a young boy’s love for the world around him. Even if he could, he knew she wouldn’t understand.

He tried a different tack. “Now, my dear,” he said, smiling now, although there was nothing of angelic warmth in it— that was on reserve for Crowley. It was a smile as cold as the air around them, and sharp as the icicles on the eaves. “What, may I ask, are you imagining as the ideal outcome of this little adventure? Hm?”

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of all this, and maybe do my part as a good citizen to change your mind,” she said plaintively, “it’s  _ journalism,  _ you see, a  _ human interest  _ story—” 

“Oh! A  _ journalist,  _ why didn’t you say! I’d be delighted to tell you about the history of the shop— although I assume you’ve done your research already?”

“Well, I saw Marina’s post and—” 

“Good old Marina,” Crowley interjected. Phoebe glared at him, and then back to Aziraphale.

“You’re bringing down the aesthetic of the whole street. You’re  _ ruining  _ Christmas for innocent people, with your high prices, your ugly store, your  _ rudeness,  _ Marina was right, you  _ are  _ a Scrooge!”

Aziraphale’s smile tightened frostily. “Rude?  _ Me?” _ he said, the very air of disbelief. “Oh, and I was  _ so  _ close to throwing in the towel and putting up my tree this very afternoon, thanks to your impassioned reasoning. But oh, no, that will simply never do now.”

“But—” Phoebe began, about to plead her case further, but Aziraphale was done. “You can take your precious Christmas,” he said, “and  _ keep it!”  _

“Ha!” laughed Crowley with glee, and gave Aziraphale a loud and perfectly-aimed high five. Then, as one, they nodded at each other and darted away into the shop, leaving Phoebe and her friends stunned into silence on the pavement outside. 

“My, that was exciting,” said Aziraphale, removing his scarf and tossing towards an empty chair. Crowley caught it and hung it up on the coat rack. “I should engage in spirited public debate more often.” He sighed, tossing his coat to the chair. Crowley caught it and hung it up too. 

“You’re brilliant,” said Crowley, moving to Aziraphale’s side. “You’re fucking brilliant, you are.” He buried Aziraphale’s face in delighted kisses. “Mind you,” he said after a bit, nose-to-nose with the angel, “don’t get too excited. She’s probably going to edit the video to make you look like a complete pillock.” 

***

Crowley watched Phoebe’s video near a dozen times once it went up the next morning.

It was titled  _ STORY TIME: I MET A REAL-LIFE CHRISTMAS HATER!  _ and had racked up over a million views already. It was everything. It was  _ perfect.  _ Six frenetically-edited, flawlessly-lit minutes of entitlement, confrontation, outrage, snobbery, and pure 21st-century narcissism. Everyone who watched the video would come away feeling either utterly indignant on behalf of the threatened sanctity of the holiday, or wholly enraged at Phoebe’s invasive hardline tactics. There wasn’t a human soul who would escape the grate of Phoebe’s whine without a mild tarnish— and during the holiday season, too, when everything was supposed to be tender and mild and all that. Crowley was so very, very proud of Aziraphale.

But there was something else Crowley loved about the video, too, and he honestly was ashamed at how long it took him to put together exactly what it was. 

Then, all at once, he had it. There  _ he  _ was, on screen, the demon Crowley, an arm around a pink-cheeked angel amidst gently falling snow. Aziraphale’s snippish tone and defensive attitude was drawing a slow-spreading goopy smile across Crowley’s face in the video, one he’d barely been aware of at the time, but he couldn’t even find it in himself to get embarrassed about it now. When the camera swerved slightly away, edging Phoebe out of frame to focus in on Crowley and Aziraphale for a moment, Crowley hit pause. 

It was the first time they’d been caught on video together, to his knowledge. It might have even been the first photographic evidence of them even knowing each other at all. Certainly the first one he was conscious of, discounting any pictures they might have appeared unknowingly in the background of since the invention of the camera. Crowley had  _ wanted  _ pictures, of course, had tried to drag Aziraphale into photo booths in various pubs throughout the 70’s and 80’s, before finally accepting around 1990 that even when utterly sloshed, the angel was too fearful, too protective of their fragile safety to let it be threatened with such dangerous evidence.

Nearly four months post-toast (“After To The World” being a division of era necessitating its own nomenclature), Crowley was still basking in the surreal glory of simply being allowed to  _ exist  _ alongside Aziraphale. He hadn’t even  _ begun _ to board the long train of thought that would lead him through all of the different ways their relationship could now be freely commemorated, immortalized. He could— gosh, he could take a  _ selfie  _ with Aziraphale, if he wanted to! 

Crowley valiantly tried to summon up the strength to be ticked off that PhoebeGTV, of all people, had beaten him to the first-picture punch, but the image before him simply wouldn’t allow for any anger. On the screen, with the video paused, the snowflakes were frozen in the air like they had been during that timeless moment at the Christmas market. And in the absence of Phoebe’s bratty screech, it was just as picturesque a sight. 

_ You can take your precious Christmas and keep it,  _ Crowley thought to himself with a fond chuckle. 

But… Hm. He had a thought, which led to him tabbing over to Google on his phone, checking something, and smiling.

Then, instead of heading straight to the bookshop that morning from his flat, as was his practice after those nights of the week he spent back at his own place (which were, to be fair, becoming slowly fewer and fewer), he took a little detour. 

He was just wrapping up his mission when he felt it. A twisting pressure near the base of his stomach, sending tendrils of urgency up his chest and into his throat. The last time he’d felt like this, he’d been speeding down the street in his Bentley, towards a bookshop he was seconds away from finding out was on fire. 

Aziraphale was in trouble. 

  
  


***

By the time Crowley arrived, the situation had grown unbearable. 

As soon as Aziraphale had flipped the shop’s sign to OPEN at eleven, the chaos had begun. A seething mass descended almost immediately upon A.Z. Fell & Co, drawn by the intoxicating promise of becoming a part of the latest manufactured controversy.

There were fans of Marina and Phoebe, of course, cultish devotees of not so much Christmas itself but the specific glittery, commercial schema of the holiday their heroes had popularized, all picking up books and putting them back down again with looks of disgust, as if the mere act of handling a hardbound copy of  _ Brideshead Revisited  _ would stain their chunky FILAs. 

There were fellow influencers by the dozen; all decked out in holiday finery with their phones and cameras out, trying to get in on the outrage parade and lap up some of the overflow views and clicks from the original posts.

One of the influencers had hired up a group of carollers, who had stationed themselves in between two bookcases and were giving “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” a go, dressed up in elaborate costumes that normally Aziraphale would’ve found charming, but in this context just served to add to the distressing improbability of the whole situation.

A woman with a large basket of tinsel and string lights and mistletoe was attempting to forcibly spruce the place up, flinging garish decorations across tables and shelves. 

There was a priest— no,  _ two  _ priests, milling about, posing for interviews with the influencers, discussing the importance of the role of Christmas in English cultural life. 

And in the middle of all of this was Aziraphale, running about, batting away the persistent accusations of the collective as he tried frantically to keep the gum-chewing teens away from the Wildes. This was nearly as bad as the time he almost got burned at the stake for witchcraft in the 16th century. 

Aziraphale didn’t hear the doorbell jingle when Crowley arrived, though if he had, he would’ve just assumed it portended yet another addition to the horde. 

Crowley, for his part, had never seen the bookshop so crowded, and only spotted Aziraphale when he finally pushed through a pack of pro-Christmas protesters, busy spreading leaflets bearing Santa's face on one of the book-covered tables.

“What the hell is going on?” Crowley tried to say to the angel over the din. 

Aziraphale just mouthed,  _ HELP!  _

“You lot, get out!” Crowley yelled, waving his hands madly at the assembly, but nobody paid him any mind. 

He clenched his teeth, then shouted, in an inhumanly loud voice enhanced with the deep bass rumble of demonic power: “ **_OI! SHIFT IT!!!!!_ ** _ ”  _

The whole shop shook, and silence fell immediately. Crowley could feel the heartbeats of the humans around him shudder to a halt, and then, in a satisfying chorus, all speed up in utter fear. 

An efficient thirty-second stampede later, Crowley was alone with Aziraphale. The poor angel looked like he’d been through a war, and so did his shop. 

Above Aziraphale’s head, across a shelf, the invasive decorator had strung up a set of shiny green-and-red letters that read JOY TO THE WORLD. As Crowley watched, most of the letters drifted morosely to the ground, leaving only the word OY. 

Wordlessly, Crowley guided Aziraphale into the back room, where a lonely strip of silver tinsel was lying limply across the armchair.

“Come here,” said Crowley, pulling Aziraphale down with him onto the sofa. “Angel, why didn’t you call? I would’ve come earlier, headed them off before it hit critical mass!” 

“It all happened so fast,” said Aziraphale sadly, “and suddenly the carollers were blocking the phone.”

“You could’ve miracled them away,” said Crowley. He knew very well it was a lost cause to argue that tack with Aziraphale, but they’d been sticking to a certain structure for these back-and-forths for thousands of years. If it ain’t broke, et cetera. 

“I told them I was Jewish,” Aziraphale said.

“And?”

“It didn’t work! You  _ said  _ it would work!” 

“Well, shows what I know,” said Crowley. “Crazy thing to get worked up about, I still think. Those lot, I mean— s’just a holiday.” 

“Oh, you know humans,” said Aziraphale with a sigh. “I can’t really blame them for it. It’s quite invigorating to have a— mission— a purpose—” He trailed off distractedly. Crowley’s impromptu life coaching session yesterday had clearly not been the total cure-all the demon had hoped it’d be. 

They were silent for a moment. Then Crowley said, “Hey. It’s the 25th.”

“It isn’t,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “It’s the— oh. Not— not of December, you mean.” 

“Yeah. Kislev.” 

Aziraphale sighed, looking off somewhere into the middle distance. “That was one of mine, you know.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale nodded. “The assignment was to give them an extra two or three days’ extension. Just enough to show the approval of the Almighty… but I, er. Got a bit carried away.” 

Crowley whistled through his teeth. “Whoo-ee,” he said. “How’d that go over? Eight full days. Gabriel couldn’t have been happy.” 

“He wasn’t, not at first, but eventually Uriel and the rest brought him round… Got a commendation and everything.” Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s and laced their fingers together. With his other hand, he stroked gentle circles around Crowley’s knuckles. “Seems like ages ago, now.”

“That’s cause it was,” said Crowley. He could sense the melancholy threatening to swell up inside Aziraphale, and so judged it to be the perfect time to unleash his secret weapon.

A little awkwardly, because he was unwilling to extricate his hand from the angel’s, he reached with the other hand inside a jacket pocket and pulled out an object that was much too large to have actually been physically contained inside.

It was rectangular and comfortably solid, wrapped in black crepe paper with a red ribbon, because Crowley was nothing if not committed to his brand.

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, his mouth forming a perfect pink O of surprise. “Is that—” 

“For you, yeah,” said Crowley. He passed it over, and Aziraphale took it. 

“You’ll have to let go if you want me to open it,” murmured the angel, and Crowley reluctantly decamped his hand back to his lap. 

Aziraphale tugged the ribbon loose and tore into the paper.  “Crowley,” he murmured, “I— this is— I’ve never— We’ve never—” 

“I know,” said Crowley, admiring his handiwork. 

Held in Aziraphale’s hands was a beautiful gold picture frame. Inside, underneath clear glass, was a glossy print of the freeze-frame from Phoebe’s video. Crowley and Aziraphale, standing in high-definition against the backdrop of the bookshop, snow in their hair, faces animated with excitement and annoyance and underneath it all, love. It was so easy to see from the outside— a bit mortifying, in retrospect. Had they really both pranced around looking like that for thousands of years, so far-gone (in their own ways) that any punter with a Polaroid could’ve gone to either head office with proof of it? 

Well, it was all out there in the open now, gilt-framed and genuine as anything. “There’s a first time for everything, angel,” Crowley said.

“I didn’t get you anything,” said Aziraphale, “I didn’t know we were celebrating—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Crowley, “no, seriously, don’t, because if you do I’m going to have to say something like  _ you’re the only gift I need  _ and I  _ really  _ don’t want to have to do that.” 

Aziraphale laid the picture frame down on the sofa, and leaned in to kiss Crowley. Despite the stress of just moments ago, the angel tasted of calm, and comfort, and home. Crowley pressed up against the plush invitation of Aziraphale’s chest and let himself be wrapped in strong arms, held there, kept close. 

After a bit, Aziraphale pulled away, seemingly out of a compulsion to gaze once more upon the framed photograph, which Crowley couldn’t really begrudge him.

“It’s just so wonderful,” he said, “thank you, oh, thank you, my dearest.” Crowley could only nod, hum in attempted nonchalance, dizzy from a simple kiss even after all these months of practice. He rather hoped he’d never get used to it.

Aziraphale had slumped back against the couch, the picture in his hands. He glanced out the window at the falling snow, then back to Crowley. “It can’t last forever, can it?” he said, not elaborating, but not needing to. “This. All this.” 

“So sayeth the Maccabees,” noted Crowley, “and look what they got. It lasted as long as they wanted. As long as they needed.” 

Aziraphale huffed, “Yes, but that was only because I got carried away—”

“Then do it. I dare you. I want you to get carried away, every single day. Go over the top, as far as you want to go, and I want you to take me with you.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Incredibly sure.  _ Impossibly  _ sure.” 

“Well, then,” said Aziraphale slowly. He sighed, his lake-colored eyes threatening to glisten as he smiled at Crowley. “Can’t argue with the impossible— I suppose that’s just what I’ll have to do.” 

He gave Crowley a quick peck on the lips, and then stood up from the sofa, brushing off the front of his waistcoat. Crowley followed him through the bookshop as he miracled the wreckage of the invasion away, restoring the place from unnatural chaos to its habitual disorder. Tinsel and leaflets disappeared; rucked up rugs straightened themselves out. On the desk that held the ancient till, Aziraphale carefully placed the framed photo. Anyone who made it to the center of the labyrinth that was the book-buying process at A.Z. Fell & Co would come face-to-face with it. 

“So, angel,” said Crowley, “as the newly crowned Scrooge of Soho, what  _ are  _ your plans for Christmas? Only a few days to go now. Will you give a speech? Proclaim the whole of your domain a secular fiefdom?” 

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Aziraphale, which was obviously a lie.

“I hear Chinese food and a movie is what they do these days,” suggested Crowley, knowing the invitation to tempt when he heard it. 

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale. “That sounds  _ marvelous.  _ There’s that new dim sum place I’ve heard such good things about—!” 

“It’s a date,” said Crowley. 

From an obscure drawer in one of his endless cabinets, Aziraphale pulled something delicate and silver. “For tonight,” he explained, holding up the antique menorah. 

Crowley nodded in approval. “Nice,” he said. “But there’s still a while before the sun goes down. I assume— you’re not going to open up again—?”

“We’re closed for the holidays,” Aziraphale said officiously. “Starting, er, now.” 

“Perfect timing,” said Crowley. He sidled up next to Aziraphale and insinuated his head in the comforting crook of the angel’s neck. 

“Oh, I see how it is,” said Aziraphale.

“Do you, angel?” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, and carried Crowley away. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to all my jews !!! she'asa nisim l'avoteinu etc etc, we out here existing under xtian hegemony and writing fic to cope :') 
> 
> i'm on tumblr [@areyougonnabe](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) !

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [shed a sweet light [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944002) by [ahundredindecisions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahundredindecisions/pseuds/ahundredindecisions)




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